Page 54 of The Lipstick Flip

Swear to God, there was a fucking light in Noah’s eyes.

And that was when I realized I’d walked into a trap.

“You don’t know what you’re going to wear for the tour?”

“A sweater,” I said. But it sounded bullshitty even to me.

“Which sweater?”

“I don’t know, Noah. I’m working on this right now.”

“You have to have a cute outfit.”

I decided to try closing the door. With Noah on the other side.

He laughed. And then he knocked on the door. And then he said, “You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“I’m not trying to get rid of you. I’m trying to fix this door.”

“The door is fine.”

“It’s not fine. It sticks—”

The door opened—and yeah, it still stuck a little—and Noah stood there, hands on hips. “This is your debut.”

“Oh my God, please do not call it a fucking debut.”

“Fine, it’s your—your big, manly macho event.”

“It sounds like I’m going to get plowed by a guy in a harness.”

“Howie, this is important!”

I recognized that tone from when we’d been married. That tone meant I was about to lose a fight.

“Okay,” I said. “Tonight—”

“What if we have to buy you something? What if the stores are closed?” Something like actual panic filled his face. “Oh my God, Howie, what if we have to order you something? What if it doesn’t get here in time?”

“What a fucking tragedy,” I muttered. “Tomorrow—”

“No, tomorrow you’ve got the HVAC guy coming, and then we’ve got to do a deep clean, and then there’s only one more day until the tour. We’ve got to figure this out right now.”

I went for the Hail Mary. “Maybe you should figure out what you’re wearing.”

Noah sniffed. “I planned that last week. Come on, we don’t have a lot of time.”

Which was how I ended up in my bedroom, in my house, with my sort-of husband tearing a new asshole in my wardrobe.

“How old is this shirt?” Noah asked, holding up one of my thermals.

“I like that shirt.”

“It’s ancient.”

“It’s not that old.”

“It’s falling apart.”